The Creative Script

We are not our thoughts, our own mind
Or the life we made; the intersection of time
We are not the lottery of birth
The ranks among men; the torture of the towns

No; we are something else…
Further from the cities of holograms and projections
Where a drop of sacredness changes everything
Like a dissolution of all the cravings

Where we turn invisible to the old way of things
We are not the actors and the roles
Not the sacrifices we thought we had to make
We are not the life scripts and labor and duty

We are the heart broken and made whole again
We are the cosmic patterns that sowed in us
Miracles and wonders that had little to do with us

Those things that put you beyond beliefs
Those events that change all further moments
Where the self is no longer just a self
And our work is no longer just a selfish thing

There we find remnants of who were before the fall
Before a sort of dumb materialism and capitalism
Those idols that destroyed us on the inside
Worry is itself the idleness of loving not enough

We mustn’t complain for the secret choice we made
But find fruit in the ordinary and nectar
Also in the suffering; that is our way of life
Our habit of doing and repeating
What we ourselves expect us to do; the designs
We follow irrespective of the outcomes
We are all brief experiments in a violent seeing
Where there is not time to be; but rush like an art in pain.

Spring’s Anthem of Thirst

In losing myself and letting go of my historical pride
I am realizing a new frame of reference
One that does not require trust or hope
A new leaf on an old loving flute
Where the instrument does not disrupt the melody

Time is a dream of flexibility
We must bend and embrace the footsteps
That leads us on like the burning
Thirst for a deeper connection

I do not require a life-work to be great
Nor do I require love for validation
Friendship is my own definition
Of how I relate to a generous universe

Where we re-write what was once written
In our minds as the true language
But language is only an expression
Of how one object relates to another

Morality and history are put figments
Lovers and family are but temporary actors
Who we thought we were is not maybe so accurate

The human genuine is not our defining moment
Spring is a transpersonal sign of a further reach
For a horizon inside perception that turns inside-out
For giving and receiving are not the answers

I am not there, I do not sleep
I only pray for something like new beginnings
That energizes me before I go
To repeat the cycles that were pre-ordained

To hear the morning’s hush and the starlight breath
Of galaxies aching just like ours
Our bodies aging in the caress of skin
Drinking water to be whole again

Bathing in purity to be nothing again
A light transparency of spirit echoing in mind
Refining organs from within with
The hidden intelligence that unifies by design

I do not know how the diamonds glint in snow
But it has all melted and we must live who we are fully.

Those Secrets

I often asked myself why I did not love the Earth

Who had made me so tender and imperfect

The secret to living a life well lived?

Happiness was not the goal; it is not a thing

 

But a process, an awakening to loving everything

And you can work a lifetime at the heart

And dream an eternity with the soul

Until your history is swallowed up in compassion

 

And your drama disappears into a

Moist blanket of empathy where you transcend

The ignorance of your own missed opportunities

A savage garden of needs that would convince you

 

In the solitude of an unmarked place

That you are a stark nomad so unlike the unsettled world

Yet in the light of the sun, your body still aches

To be swallowed up into a bigger purpose

 

Your cells still crave the call of other stars

There’s no armor of God or golden goodness

We are the same, mistrustful and at times miserable

By-passers of creation, haunted and hunting for

 

Always something more, further than what we were

All experience is for the drinking of inspiration

A fountain of faces and seconds, of floods and races

And we’re already there; we’ve already arrived

 

We are just always catching up with our own divinity

The world is filled with too much to say

Yet in the end it matters now what we’ve told ourselves

It only matters what we do in our chosen projects of love.

The Last Comfort

I want to hear the child within speak again

The long lost language of flowers and stars

The future that is the ancient past

The whisper that is the tranquil now

 

I do not seek material things, but lift

Lift the veil of the whisper of the wind

Beneath the silence that all things return

Time is a silver slice of breeze in Spring

 

The world doesn’t require us to be anything

But how the cosmos moves us from within

I want to know the verses of tomorrow

Whose pale light will linger like a muted trombone

 

Into the night’s treachery of existence

Where the choices are made that guide our ever-afters

There are no subtle songs of the forest life

Only the make-believe of men and his bots

 

There are no solutions left to the problems we’ll create

Because we are the great trouble-makers in the galaxy

I want to hear the soul’s trembling voice who rarely speaks

That glimmer of the unknown blessedness kept deep within

 

That does not flight or suffer from these mortal wounds

Or have a need for answers in history’s definate touch

That was not so all-defining after all, just another story

Lost to the light of a billion suns.